A Johnlock Feels Fest
by JohnlockKlainer
Summary: This is a series of angsty, fluffy, happy, sad, etc etc Johnlock fics. They will be one shots unless I get a lot of requests to continue a particular one. I also accept prompts whether it be one word or an entire concept. Thanks for reading!
1. A Reichenbach Christmas

A Reichenbach Christmas

John walks through the beautiful, snow covered park with his hands in his pockets and the warm coat tightly wrapped around him. He can see the air turn white as he releases the heavy exhale of a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

His eyes have been trained on the ground for as long as he can recall during the time of his walk. Honestly, his mind had been very far away and he couldn't even remember the journey he took to get here. The time sped by without him noticing and the natural light outside was already beginning to dim.

He blinks a few times as the chill in the air brings him back to reality and he gradually comes to a stop. He takes a few looks around in order to get a sense of where he is before sinking to the ground on his knees. He sits down in the cold, previously untouched snow, numb to the nip it gives to his lightly clothed skin. Luckily, he wouldn't be disturbed because this particular spot in the park was didn't have street lamps and not many people stayed there at night.

He lets the frown set on his face and a tear slip down his cheek that he had been holding in ever since his best friend's suicide. Bringing a hand up, he immediately tries to wipe it away. _Stop it John... Stop... This. It's been over a bloody year. Get control_, the army doctor scolded himself. He needed to get past this... If not for himself, then for everyone involved. He just couldn't help but wish for a miracle, especially around this time of year.

He wanted Sherlock with him... He wanted to go on cases again... He wanted those stupid, petty arguments they used to have... He just wanted things the way they should be... the way they were _meant_ to be.

An idea forms in John's mind as he glances around. As ridiculous as he feels for even thinking of it, he stands up to go through with his vision anyways. He sets to work, rolling, patting, and shaping large amounts of the snow blanketing the ground. In only about twenty minutes he straightens to admire his work.

A large boulder of snow stands strong, rooted to the ground with other tightly packed snow around the base. On top of that is another, slightly smaller ball of snow, almost perfectly shaped into a sphere. Then of course, on top of that one is an even smaller ball of snow. This one is about the size of his head with sloppy etches around the top - meant to resemble curls of hair.

He looks around and notices a few stones sitting by the leg of the park bench. John freezes for a moment while images and words pass through his head.

_*Flashback*_

_"John, I'm telling you the murderer is related to the victim." Sherlock says, starting to get annoyed because no one else seems to understand what he sees._

_"That isn't possible. The victim didn't have any family! The only people with even a trace of the same blood line are all the way in America. Face it Sherlock, this is one time where you're wrong." John says sternly, also getting annoyed. Sherlock always seemed to do this. He would speak to John like the doctor could see everything that went on in the detective's head. Sometimes he needed to be pulled back and John seemed to be the only one to be able to do that._

_Sherlock simply scoffs at that statement. "Please John, I'm never wrong. Don't you know me well enough by now to know that?" Sherlock huffs and plops down on a park bench they happen to be passing. John, on the other hand, remains standing._

_"First time for everything."_

_Sherlock narrows his eyes at the doctor, gritting his teeth in frustration. He finally begins to slowly explain through clenched teeth. "The victim, John... The victim had family visiting but there are no records that they are related. They are keeping it from everyone but themselves of course. But why? Hiding an incest relationship? Maybe one was in trouble and didn't want the other to be linked to them? No... If they worried about that he wouldn't have ended up killing her." Now Sherlock was just rambling to himself, seemingly forgetting John was even there._

_Suddenly the detective's head snaps up and his mouth forms an 'o' shape. "I got it! Ha! Brilliant!" he exclaims as jumps to his feet and starts sprinting in the direction they just came from. John groans in frustration before taking off after him._

_*End of flashback*_

John sighs when the memory ends and he's alone once again. He walks over to the bench to retrieve the rocks that lay under it. After collecting a few, he makes his way back over to his art piece and gently presses them into the smallest ball of snow. Instead of the typical "smiley face", John spreads the stones to form a small frown. He puts two others in the correct spots to serve as the eyes.

He looks around again, rubbing his gloved hands together to stay warm. He moves a bit of snow out of his way until he can feel the ground, not paying any attention to the fact that it is now dark out. The park was full of twigs so it wasn't hard to find what he was searching for. He snaps it right in the middle and pads back over to his creation.

He was determined now... He didn't care how childish or ridiculous or "sentimental" this looked to anyone else... He was finishing what he started.

He sets one twig over each of the eyes to form eyebrows pointing slightly inward. After adjusting the stones and twigs a bit he finally gets an expression he's happy with; one that would do the original model justice. The face looked brooding and thoughtful while somehow managing to look judgmental.

Just one more thing... John thinks as he reaches up and slowly unwraps the dark blue article of clothing from around his neck. He holds it delicately within his hands and takes a step forward.

_*Flashback*_

_"You know, for as long as I've lived with you there are still so many things I don't know." John randomly say over their morning coffee one day._

_Sherlock looks up at him with a raised eyebrow. "And?"_

_John pauses a second before responding. "Well... You know pretty much everything there is to know about me. And... We're friends so I should know a bit more about you, shouldn't I?"_

_"Not particularly, no. You already know more than I allow anyone else to know. Isn't that enough?"_

_John sighs. He already expected Sherlock would say something like that just to avoid talking about himself. "As your friend, no... It's not. I mean, I don't even know exactly what happened between you and Mycroft. I don't know anything about your dating history yet you know how my dates go just by looking at me." He looks around to think of something more simple that Sherlock wouldn't easily object to. "I don't even know why you love that bloody scarf so much."_

_Sherlock looks in the direction John gestured in, eyes fixing on the blue fabric draped over his chair. The detective sighs and looks back over at John. "... Alright. I will tell you about the scarf but only if you quit pestering me about my dating history. Deal?" He raises an eyebrow and John nods in agreement. Honestly, he didn't think there even was a story behind the scarf. He only wanted to give the general idea of the type of things he wanted to know._

_Sherlock sighs and steeples his hands under his chin, taking a moment to figure out how he was going to tell this story. "I acquired that scarf when I was only in the early years of secondary school. It's not a secret that no one liked me in school... Not that I cared. They were all idiots anyways. Mycroft was already attending University at the time and I was alone in the school full of morons who found my intelligence intimidating." Sherlock says this in a nonchalant way as if it happened a lot._

_John listens intently though he's not quite sure why this has any relevance. "Now there's something you have to understand..." Sherlock sighs, obviously embarrassed or regretful about what he was going to say. "When we were younger I looked up to Mycroft. I admired him as any little brother does. He was the only one I knew that thought like me. He could see things just as I saw them and he was the only person I didn't consider an idiot."_

_Admittedly, John was shocked to hear that. He always assumed their little brotherly feud had always been there. Sherlock continues, "Of course I never told _him_ that. Anyways, he only visited during the holidays and our arguments only got worse with each passing visit. We got into a particularly heated discussion one year and he left earlier than planned. He didn't end up spending Christmas with us which, in my mind, was not a big deal. December 25th is just as important to me as February 11th or May 6th... They're all just dates. One shouldn't hold any significance over another." Sherlock waves a hand in dismissal of John's protests that were sure to come._

_"The morning after my brother left I found a package. The note attached read 'Dear brother; From Mycroft.'... It was the scarf. He thought he was being clever by getting me something I wouldn't like while avoiding mother's reprimanding." He scoffs with a roll of his eyes. "So, I played his own game against him. I wore the scarf everywhere I went and got as much use out of it as I could just to annoy him. That's how it started... But it became something else not long after. It helped me focus my thoughts even during school when I was surrounded by low IQs and students with Anderson's level of intelligence."_

_Sherlock shrugs and finally opens his eyes to look at John. "And I've worn it ever since. It's become a... habit, if you will."_

_John gives a small nod, taking in all of the things Sherlock just told him. The detective grows impatient and looks at John expectantly. "Well? Are you satisfied now?"_

_John thinks for a second before answering. "One more question... Just out of curiosity, what did you get Mycroft that year?"_

_Sherlock's annoyed expression changes into a sly grin. "An umbrella."_

_*End of flashback*_

John is left fully aware of the fabric in his hands when the memory fades. After taking a steadying breath, he brings the scarf forward and dresses the snow man up in it. He doubles it before draping it around the 'neck' and pulling the ends through the loop to secure it.

He takes a step back and slowly sinks down to sit cross legged, satisfied with his work. Not once does he take his eyes off of it. He feels himself gradually losing control of his strong composure... A single tear falls out and lands in the snow in front of him against his will. Still, his eyes do not leave the snow formation.

Memories flash through his mind and soon the tears fall freely, John giving up on trying to stop them. Maybe this is what he needs... John never allowed himself to break down since Sherlock's fall and maybe it was just time he let it all go. Clutching the snow tightly in his hands, sobs shake through him, now impossible to control.

For what feels like hours he simply sits, sobbing his heart out without a way to stop it. Thankfully, it really only takes about ten minutes before he's able to get a hold of himself. No matter how many minutes pass or how blurred his vision becomes from tears, he never allows himself to look away from the formation in front of him.

He sniffles a few times and the tears eventually dry on his cheeks, no longer being replaced by new ones. He takes a deep breath as a small, sad smile draws itself on his expression without any known reason. His voice is hoarse and his throat is constricted from the cold... But that doesn't prevent him from whispering into the night:

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock..."

Somewhere close by, a very faint "Happy Christmas John..." can be heard. John's head snaps up at the sound, finding nothing but trees surrounding him. The wind blows gently and John's shoulders slump. _Just a trick of the wind..._


	2. A Painful Reunion

**Hello! Okay, so this is not a continuation chapter of A Reichenbach Christmas. It's more like a time skip ahead to when Sherlock returns. I just want to clear up, the ending of the Christmas fic was not leading into a reunion. I changed and described the ending a bit more so it wasn't confusing. So, with that being said, this chapter is sort of like a time jump two years after John builds the snowman of Sherlock. I hope I am making sense. :P**

**I have decided to make this into a series of one shots unless a lot of people request for a second chapter for any of them. Some will be angsty, fluffy, sad, romantic, etc. However, I will never write smut so this will remain a T rated fic.**

**Anyways, I will take prompts that anyone has. Just type 'em up in a review and I'll write a one shot on it and post it here. :D **

**Thanks so much for reading!**

**~JohnlockKlainer~**

A Painful Reunion

John slowly walks through the graveyard towards the chunk of stone that has come to represent his best friend. He stops right before it and, for a few minutes, just remains completely still and silent. This is partly because he wants to think about what he plans on saying but also because he knows that every time he did this he always ended up crying at least a bit. He really needed to move on. It was just... So incredibly difficult. Finally, he takes a shaky breath and walks forward to place his fingertips on the cold marble.

"Well, Sherlock... It's been three years. Three years since... Well, since you left. What I said the day of your funeral still holds true. You were the best, most human man... that I have ever met." He takes a steadying breath before continuing. "I will always have complete faith in the man I knew. Not even you... can convince me that you were a fraud." He lets out a breathy, ironic and sad chuckle. "Yes, I know you would think of this as a waste of time. You would think this is 'tedious' because I say the same things every year but... I just thought you may need a reminder."

He sits down in the dirt right in front of the tombstone and draws little symbols on the dust absentmindedly just to keep his mind busy. "You know, for a long time after you -... you died, I still thought there had to be _some_ way that you would come back. You're _Sherlock Holmes_ for christ's sake... The man who seemed to have a plan to get out of any tricky situation that presented itself."

The smile that had formed from the memories of Sherlock's cleverness slowly fades as his mind is brought back to reality. "But you never came back. It's been three years... And you haven't come back." He stops moving his finger around in the dirt and becomes very still. "I guess you finally met your match, hm?"

John doesn't hear the faint footsteps slowly getting closer to him from behind. His gaze is unwavering and strictly pointed at the ground. He whispers, just barely audible, "I miss you, Sherlock... I miss your late night violin playing that drove me crazy... I miss nagging you until you agree to eat... I miss your brilliant mind... H*ll, I even miss dealing with double the amount of groceries because you refuse to step foot in a store."

He sighs heavily and says in a quieter voice, "The point is... I miss you, Sherlock, and everything about you... I really do, so... There." He goes completely silent after that and simply sits there for a few minutes. Slowly, he stands up and nods once more at the tombstone as a sort of farewell. This was the routine every anniversary of his death and various times between when he just felt like talking to Sherlock.

He had so much more to say but... what would be the point? So he could act like Sherlock was alive, even for just a bit? It wouldn't bring him back. He was just being foolish if he really believed that talking for longer would help at all.

Just before he's about to turn around, something places itself lightly on his shoulder. "I miss you too, John..." are the words that ring out in the silence. John's eyes go wide and it feels as if his heart stopped because it was _his_ voice.

_I really have gone mad_... he thinks to himself as he slowly turns around to face the man behind him. "No..." he whispers in disbelief when he faces none other than Sherlock Holmes; the very man that's been _dead_ for three years.

John takes a step back and Sherlock's hand falls off of the blogger's shoulder. "_No_..." he repeats. "You didn't... This... This isn't real...". Tears sting his eyes as he slowly shakes his head in disbelief and... hurt.

It was much easier for John to believe he's just gone mad than for Sherlock to be alive. Of course, this was what he'd been wanting for three whole years but... it just wasn't _possible_. John could just imagine... He'd get his hopes up and go around blabbering about Sherlock Holmes and... and he'd be even more disappointed and _broken_ when he found out it was all in his head.

The former Army doctor backs up until his calves touch the cold tombstone. Sherlock hadn't moved a muscle. The once great detective waits until John stops moving before taking one step forward. "John... I'm sorry. I truly am."

John cuts him off as a fire seems to ignite within. "No no no you're not! You... You aren't alive. You died three years ago!" He puts a hand to his head and lets out a distressed laugh, now speaking to himself. "I'm going mad... I... I... _God_...". He uses the tombstone as support, feeling as if he'd collapse at any moment.

"John, _listen_ to me. I am alive... It was a magic trick. All an illusion, remember?" Sherlock says, desperately trying to get John to believe him before he could to run away.

Despite Sherlock's words, John continued to shake his head and deny what was before his very eyes. "I SAID NO! You're not here! You're dead!" Tears were falling now but John really didn't care anymore. "Sherlock wouldn't have done this! He was my _friend_! My best friend! He wouldn't have... he wouldn't..." He looks down as his fists clench at his sides and his teeth grit together. "He wouldn't hu-urt me like... like this..."

He swallows a sob before turning his eyes back up to the other man. He half expected for no one to be there but, of course, Sherlock still stood there as... as alive as ever.

For once in the many years that John's known him, Sherlock actually looked _guilty_. "I'm... So sorry, John. If you would just let me explai-"

"You... You b*st*rd!" John cuts him off, pulling his fist back and launching it forward. Tears blur his vision but it doesn't prevent him from hitting Sherlock right in the nose. The taller man just stands there, taking anything John decided to throw at him. "How could you?! You couldn't bloody _tell_ me you were planning on disappearing for three years?! No... No. Disappearing would have been better! At least if you disappeared there would be _hope_! I watched you DIE!"

By now something clicked in John and he came to terms with the fact that this _was_ indeed Sherlock. Now he was reduced to weak yelling and heavy breathing. He pulls his arm back to throw another punch but it's too weak to do anything. In fact, it was so weak that Sherlock was able to catch the fist in his own palm. He gently lowers both of their hands, catching the other fist that shoots towards him. "John... Please..." he pleads, his lip busted and his nose bleeding from John's hits.

The anger slowly leaves the doctor's body and only sorrow and pain is left. Sherlock notices the change in John's mood immediately. He pulls the shorter man into his arms and John grips onto Sherlock's shirt, squeezing his eyes shut as tight as possible.

"Three... Bloody... Years..." John manages to say though the words are muffled by Sherlock's chest. He then whispers, "How could you..?"

Sherlock mentally flinches at the broken sound of John's voice. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry... If there could have been another way I would have done it in a heart beat," he murmurs quietly, one single tear falling out of his own eye. The only other time Sherlock could remember actually crying was when he made that last phone call to John.

John brought parts of Sherlock out that the detective wasn't even aware he had. His emotional side was a big one.

"I'll explain everything... I promise." His voice drops in volume. "Everything...". This only causes John to cling on tighter.

The doctor says in a stern yet weak voice, "Don't you _dare_ leave me again... Ever. I don't care the reason... It hurts... too d*mn much..." His voice cracks halfway through the sentence and he's forced to swallow down another lump forming in his throat.

Sherlock only whispers back, "I could never..." and hugs John tighter to himself.


End file.
